


Not Talking

by hoperise



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, But that doesn't mean he doesn't have them, Dinosaur Pajamas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Excessive Use of Double Negatives, F/M, Fluff, Jake isn't comfortable with emotions, Mentions of Daddy Issues, Romance, non-verbal communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:43:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8321320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoperise/pseuds/hoperise
Summary: Jake and Amy don't talk about their problems. But not talking isn't the same as not dealing.





	

There are things that Jake and Amy don't talk about. 

 

Like Roger.

There are _things_ so large that even a multitude of words can fail to encapsulate their big-ness, how bright and radiant their pain can be. A hazy nimbus of pain, a complex system of rings of pain that vary in composition and opacity.

_Things_ far beyond comprehensive, let alone communication. _Things_ too vast to fathom, too dark to penetrate.

Like tonight.

An errant toss sends Jake's keys sliding off the kitchen counter to clatter in a heap on the floor. Their rescue will be a long time coming.

Jake presses his forehead to the door frame, his shoulders bowed as though seeking shelter from a storm.

His head rocks gently against the cheap eggshell paint, the texture mottled abstractly from years of sloppy whitewashing. A sigh wrings itself from his innermost being. His arms hang loose, but Amy's not fooled. She's made reading Jake into a profession. She's the senior detective of the Jake Operations Group, the spokesperson for the Jake Response Unit, the lead negotiator for the Jake Rescue Team. His tension bleeds through in the faint crease in his forehead, in the way his hands twitch absently, not quite closing into fists. Searching for purpose and, finding no useful outlet, giving up before the action is complete. 

Jake isn't comfortable with emotions, she knows this well.

To be fair, it's not like Amy's a champ at emotional honesty either. A string of failed relationships and blurted confessions could attest to that.

The clock is ticking now. If she approaches him directly, he'll deflect his obvious distress into a sour joke; another clumsy attempt at painting over the cracks in the walls. But everything in the situation is so _wrong_ \- from the darkening stains gradually turning Jake's shirtsleeves a rusty brown, to the extra-small body bag cooling on the medical examiner's table, to the way he still thinks it necessary to pretend like these cases don't bother him.

She's torn between the desire to set things right with him and the fear that pressing him will make him retreat. She honestly doesn't know what she'd do if he stares at her with terror-bright eyes, offers a paper-thin smile, and lies once more. He is _not fine_ \- claiming that he is will only draw attention to the fact that everyone knows how very _not fine_ he is. 

The pressure is mounting. His name slips from her lips before she's thought of a follow-up comment. "Jake-"

He cuts her off before she makes it any further. "Amy," He says, invoking her name reverently. "Amy, please. Can we just- just..."

Jake's head rocks against the door again, slowly negating the possibility of discussion, negating the ability of words to address his conflict, negating the day and everything that it had contained. "Can we not?"

So they don't talk.

Instead, Amy searches her pajama drawer and pulls out the dinosaur onesie he bought her for Future Day, and the suitjamas he'd bought himself for Random Act of Kindness Day. They watch Wreck-It Ralph while eating popcorn with chocolate syrup drizzled on top (Amy had initially been hesitant towards the flavour combination, but had quickly turned around on).

And then, in the middle of the night, with her arm wrapped around his middle and his back pressed against her chest, when his shoulders finally begin to shake, she presses her lips against his neck. She murmurs, _"No _es_ _t_ u culpa, no __es_  t_u culpa," _until the vibrations sink into his bones, whispering words he doesn't want to hear in a language he doesn't understand.

She'll tell him every way she knows that she loves him. That his problems _his failures his fuck-ups_ aren't going to scare her away.

She'll tell him in every way that matters.

The heart speaks a language all its own, and she's always been fluent in Peralta.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts folder for a while now. Wish me luck on my midterms with a comment?


End file.
